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Tag: fiction
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“Pick up your divorce papers or you’ll be arrested”
Soul-Shattering Plea and His Chilling Threat
Each day since Mitchell made his brutal announcement I felt a suffocating wave of tension and confusion clung to me, wrapping every second in a haze of dread. I was utterly lost, my heart pounding with questions that had no answers. What did this news mean for me? For Samuel? Each night, my sweet boy curled up beside me in bed, his small frame a fleeting comfort, while Mitchell—my husband, my partner—still wandered into our room, his presence a bewildering mix of familiarity and betrayal. I couldn’t fathom what he was doing or why. Who had he become?
I poured my soul out to Mitchell, my voice trembling with the weight of a love slipping through my fingers. I begged him to talk, to let me into the heart I once knew so well. “Let’s try marriage counseling,” I pleaded, tears streaming down my face, each one a silent cry for the life we’d built together. I clung to the fading dream of our 10th anniversary trip abroad, a celebration of a decade of promises now crumbling into dust. “Please, Mitchell, stop this filing. Fix this. Just tell me why,” I sobbed, my heart fracturing with every word. But his silence was a blade, slicing deeper with each unanswered question, leaving me lost in a storm of pain and confusion.
I reminded Mitchell of the life he’d chosen—a traveling salesman, always gone, leaving me and Samuel behind. When he was home, the weekends were swallowed by golf courses or the shooting range, moments stolen from us. My voice broke as I defended myself, raw with desperation. “I’m here, Mitchell, raising your son, keeping our home together, all alone. I never complain, even when I’m drowning in the weight of it all. If you feel a distance between us, it’s because you’re never here—always traveling, always somewhere else.” I searched his eyes for a flicker of understanding, but he shook his head, muttering, “No, that’s not it.” Yet he offered no truth, no reason, leaving my words to echo in the void between us, my heart aching for answers he refused to give.
I brought him back to the vow we made before we married, a sacred promise etched in love and trust. We swore divorce would never touch us unless betrayal or violence tore us apart. “There’s no abuse, Mitchell,” I whispered, my voice splintering under the weight of dread. “So what else can I think but that you’re having an affair?” The words burned my throat, a truth I couldn’t bear to face. He shook his head again, a hollow “No,” his eyes avoiding mine, refusing to offer even a sliver of clarity. Over and over, I begged—pleaded—for a reason, for anything to make sense of this agony. But he gave me nothing, leaving me shattered, my soul laid bare, drowning in the unbearable silence of a man I no longer knew.
The next morning, I stood at the school bus stop, first in line as always, waving Samuel off with a forced smile. As I turned to start my car, my eyes caught a glimpse in the rearview mirror—Mitchell’s car, parked two spaces behind mine. My stomach churned. Why was he here? What was he scheming now? The man I once knew had vanished in mere weeks, replaced by a stranger I couldn’t recognize. The other cars pulled away, leaving just ours—two silent witnesses to a crumbling life.
Dressed for work, Mitchell approached, his steps deliberate. He knocked on my window, and as I rolled it down, I saw tears glistening in his eyes. My own tears erupted, streaming down my face, hot and relentless. His words came, jumbled and nonsensical, piercing my heart. “Don’t you think I want to be married to my son’s mom?” he said, as if that could stitch together the gaping wound between us. I pleaded, my voice breaking, “You haven’t told me why you did this. Please, undo it. Whatever it is, we can fix it. I don’t know what you’ve done or why! You always promised me, promised us that you would never put us through this” But no answers came, only more confusion.
Then, with a hollow tone, he said, “This is for both of us, Jocelyn. Who knows, maybe one day we’ll remarry.” Remarry? The word stung, absurd and cruel. You don’t shatter a marriage with a flimsy promise of “maybe.” My mind reeled, grasping at the only certainty I had: his drinking had spiraled, a dark tide that had consumed him over the past four or five months. It was clouding his mind, twisting his reasoning—or so I told myself.
From his shirt pocket, he pulled a neatly folded piece of paper and handed it to me. “This is my attorney’s name and address,” he said, his voice steady now. “You need to pick up your divorce papers by 5:00 p.m. today, or you’ll be arrested.” My heart stopped. Arrested? I always believed him—he knew that. Looking back, I see how calculated he was, orchestrating every move. He even tried to paint himself noble, saying, “I don’t want to embarrass you with police serving you. I told my attorney I couldn’t do that to you. I had to do this with dignity.” Dignity? The word burned. He repeated that he loved me, that “this needed to happen,” that it was “good for both of us.” He reminded me to visit his attorney by 5:00 p.m. and walked back to his car, driving away as if he hadn’t just unraveled my world.
I sat frozen in my car, clutching that piece of paper, my sobs shaking me to my core. What had just happened? Arrested? Before 5:00? The clock was ticking, and I had a lot to figure out before Samuel would be home from school. I had to move, to act, to hold myself together. I drove home, my hands trembling, and called Heather. Through broken words, I spilled the story of the bus stop encounter. Heather, ever the fierce go-getter, didn’t hesitate. “I’ll expect you in thirty minutes,” she said, and hung up. I knew she was already springing into action, my lifeline in this chaos. I grabbed my purse, dabbed on some makeup to hide the wreckage of my face, and drove to her house, my heart heavy with the weight of a life I no longer understood.
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When Harry Met Sally
A Web of Lies Unveiled – The mistress’s husband
Jocelyn’s fingers trembled as she scrolled through social media, piecing together the fragments of her husband’s life he’d let slip in passing—names of coworkers, their families, their lives. One name stood out: his assistant, a woman with an unusual last name that lingered in Jocelyn’s mind like a splinter. It took hours of relentless searching, phonetic spellings, and dead ends, but she found her. A profile. A face. And her husband’s name. Through Google, Jocelyn found the phone number of the man married to her husband’s mistress.
Her heart pounded, a drumbeat of dread and defiance, as she dialed. The phone rang, each tone tightening the knot in her chest.
“Hello, is this Chuck?” Her voice was steady, but barely.
“Yes, it is. Who’s calling?” His tone was cautious, professional.
“You don’t know me, and I’m so sorry to bother you at work,” Jocelyn said, her words rushing out, “but I need to ask…are you aware that your wife is having an affair?”
The line crackled with Chuck’s fury. “I knew it! I knew she was spending too much time with Mitchell! Damn it! She’s always on her phone with him!”
Jocelyn’s breath caught. “So, you’ve known about this?”
“She denies it,” Chuck spat, his voice raw with betrayal. “But I knew something was off.”
Her chest tightened, a tidal wave of emotions crashing over her—anger, sorrow, and a strange, fleeting relief that she wasn’t alone in her pain. Chuck’s voice mirrored the ache she carried, a shared wound laid bare. “I have proof,” she said, her voice trembling but resolute. “Evidence. I want to meet with you and show you everything. Are you willing?”
“Yes,” Chuck replied, urgency creeping into his tone. “But what’s your name again?”
Her mind raced. She couldn’t reveal herself—not yet. Driving aimlessly through a strip mall, glued to the conversation, her eyes caught a sign: Sally Beauty Salon. The name hit her like a lifeline. “Sally,” she said, the lie sharp in her gut. “I’m Sally.”
“Are you a private investigator?” Chuck asked, suspicion lingering.
“No,” she replied, steadying her voice, “but I’m working on this case.”
Chuck took her number, his voice tight. “I need to call my sister. Is it okay if she calls you? I need to make sure this is legitimate.”
Fifteen minutes later, her phone buzzed. Chuck’s sister introduced herself, her tone wary but softening as Jocelyn spoke. Convinced, she promised to relay the details to Chuck. The confirmation landed like a stone in Jocelyn’s stomach, heavy but grounding. Someone else knew. Someone else believed.
Chuck called back, his voice urgent. “Can we meet at a restaurant on my side of town?”
Jocelyn agreed, her heart a tangled mess of dread and determination. Four days to prepare for a meeting that would rip open the wounds she was still learning to bear.
When the day arrived, Jocelyn arrived early, claiming a booth in the back of the dimly lit restaurant. A folder of enlarged photos lay before her—evidence of a truth she could no longer deny. Her phone rang. Chuck’s voice crackled, nervous and confused. “I don’t know what you look like. How do I find you in the restaurant?”
A small, bitter laugh escaped her. “Turn left,” she guided, her voice steady despite the chaos inside. “Pass three tables. Make a right. I’m in the corner booth.”
Chuck slid into the seat across from her, hanging up as his eyes met hers. “You must be his wife,” he said, his voice low, certain. “You know too much.”
Jocelyn paused, her heart pounding, before exhaling a trembling sigh. “Yes, I am,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. She confessed the impulsive lie about calling herself “Sally,” a name born of panic in that tense phone call. Chuck’s eyes softened, and a fleeting, bittersweet smile broke through the heavy air. To ease the awkwardness, he leaned in with a wry grin. “Well, I guess I should tell you—my real name’s Harry.” Their laughter, soft and fragile, filled the booth, a nod to When Harry Met Sally, a momentary spark of lightness in a night weighed down by raw, painful truth. “I got caught off guard,” Jocelyn murmured, her voice gentle, tinged with vulnerability, as the shared chuckle faded into the gravity of their shared betrayal.
The air shifted as Jocelyn spoke, her words raw and trembling. “I can’t believe he’s been unfaithful, and he’s still denying it. I needed you to know the truth—so you don’t have to endure what I’m going through.”
Chuck nodded, his gratitude laced with pain. “I’ve suspected for a long time. Vanessa always denied it, but I knew. From the day he hired her all she talked about was her boss!”
Jocelyn slid the folder across the table, her hands unsteady. Photos of stolen moments, messages, proof of a life hidden from them both. She then pulled up the videos taken by hired private investigators and the hard proof was starring at him in action. Chuck’s face hardened, his anger a quiet storm. He shook his head, swearing under his breath, the weight of betrayal sinking in. Jocelyn recognized that look—the same one she saw in her own reflection.
Then Chuck unraveled a truth that hit her like a freight train. “She’d always use my Lexus to drive her boss to the airport,” he said, his voice tight. “She’d get it cleaned, prepped, like it was part of her job. She’d leave work early when he was traveling.”
Jocelyn’s stomach churned. Her husband’s business trips—countless, meticulously planned, always with excuses. He’d never let her drive him to the airport, never let her touch his suits to drop off at the dry cleaner’s from his returned business trips. Now it was clear why: he was hiding more than she’d ever imagined. The realization clawed at her, a sickening truth that her life had been a lie long before the divorce papers.
She sat there, the photos a silent scream between them, her heart splintering under the weight of it all. Her husband’s betrayal wasn’t just a moment—it was a tapestry of deceit, woven over years, unraveling now in a stranger’s pain-filled eyes. And yet, in that shared agony, Jocelyn found a flicker of strength. She wasn’t alone. And this was only the beginning of the truth she’d uncover.
Jocelyn’s voice trembled with concern as she looked at Chuck, her eyes searching his face. “What are you going to do after this?” she asked softly, the weight of their meeting hanging in the air. Without a moment’s hesitation, Chuck’s response came like a thunderclap, raw and resolute: “I’m filing for divorce.”
Shocked, I leaned forward, my heart racing. “Are you sure?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, hoping he’d pause to reflect. But Chuck’s eyes blazed with certainty as he shouted, “Yes!” The word echoed, heavy with conviction, leaving no room for doubt.
Swallowing hard, I steadied myself and spoke, my tone gentle but firm. “You should consider using my attorney. The evidence I have… it could help both our cases.” Chuck didn’t hesitate, his face softening with gratitude. “Please,” he said, his voice quieter now but no less determined, “have your attorney reach out to me. I want to get this filed right away!”
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Everyone Knew – She Didn’t
The wife is always the last to know
From the moment her son, Samuel, entered the world, Jocelyn poured her heart into preserving every fleeting moment of his childhood. She scheduled countless appointments at Walmart’s photo studio, each visit a ritual to capture his bright eyes, his infectious giggle, the milestones that marked their family’s story. Birthdays, holidays, quiet moments of togetherness—all immortalized in snapshots she cherished. Amber, the kind-hearted photographer, became more than a familiar face. She remembered every detail—their names, their quirks, the love that bound them. Her warmth was a quiet anchor in Jocelyn’s often chaotic life.
Nine grueling months had passed since the divorce began, each day a battle against heartbreak, confusion, and endless paperwork. The weight of it had carved hollows into Jocelyn’s frame, her once-vibrant spirit dimmed by sleepless nights and unspoken grief. But this weekend, Samuel was hers. She was determined to shield him, to give him a slice of joy untouched by the wreckage of their family. They ventured to the dinosaur exhibit in downtown Atlanta, his laughter echoing as they marveled at towering skeletons, his small hand tucked safely in hers. For a fleeting moment, the world felt whole again.
Then, a gentle tap on her shoulder.
Jocelyn turned to find Amber, her familiar smile a shock in this unexpected place. The two women embraced, laughter spilling out at the serendipity of their meeting, so far from the Walmart studio. Amber’s voice was warm, her words a soft balm. “You look so small,” she said, her eyes kind but searching.
Jocelyn managed a fragile smile, the truth heavy on her tongue. “Thanks, but it wasn’t on purpose…”
Before she could explain—the sleepless nights, the tears that had melted away her strength—Amber’s voice softened, her words slicing through the air. “I know,” she said, her gaze steady, knowing. “He told me.”
The world tilted. Jocelyn’s heart stuttered, a cold wave of dread crashing over her. Amber wasn’t speaking of the divorce, the fresh wound still bleeding from nine months of legal battles. No, she was talking about a year and a half ago. A time when Jocelyn still believed in her marriage, when she thought her life was intact. Amber had run into Mitchell, had asked about her, about Samuel. And he had told her they were no longer together.
Her body trembled, a deep, bone-rattling shake that started in her core and spread outward. How? How could he have said such a thing so long ago? How many others had he told, weaving a narrative of their end while she lived in blissful ignorance? The betrayal clawed at her, raw and relentless. Every moment she thought they’d shared—every touch, every promise—now felt like a lie, a cruel masquerade.
Humiliation burned through her, hot and suffocating. She imagined the whispers, the pitying glances from strangers who knew her truth before she did. The world seemed to mock her, each smile from a passerby a reminder that she was the last to know, the last to see the fractures in her own life. What else was out there, lurking in the shadows of his deceit? What other secrets had he buried, leaving her to stumble blindly into their ruins?
The old saying struck her like a physical blow: The wife is always the last to know.
In that moment, the words seared into her soul, their truth a jagged edge. She stood there, clutching Samuel’s hand, her heart splintering under the weight of a betrayal that stretched back further than she could bear. She was a ghost in her own story, haunted by truths others had known long before she did. And yet, as Samuel’s small fingers squeezed hers, his innocent joy a flicker of light in the darkness, she vowed to keep moving forward—for him, for herself, for the life they would rebuild from the ashes of what was lost.
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Atlanta to New York
A Journey Through Heartache
The drive home from Samuel’s school was a blur, my heart pounding as I gripped the steering wheel. I called Susan, my next-door neighbor, my voice trembling as I shared the shattering news. We weren’t close, but our shared driveway made her a reluctant confidante. Her shock mirrored mine, her voice heavy with remorse. “I’ll keep an eye on the house,” she promised, offering to call if she saw him pull into the driveway while Samuel and I scrambled to pack.
Stepping into my home, it felt hollow, a fragile shell stripped of safety. The walls that once held laughter now echoed betrayal. Samuel and I moved quickly—clothes, his Easter outfits, a few cherished toys he clutched tightly. Neighbors confirmed the coast was clear, and we slipped out through the garage, bound for Atlanta’s airport, hearts racing with urgency and fear.
At the airport, we parked, shuttled, and checked in, my hand tightly holding Samuel’s as he chattered with excitement, oblivious to the storm inside me. I forced a smile, determined to shield him from my unraveling world. But the universe tested us further—our flight delayed once, then again, stretching four agonizing hours. Hunger gnawed at us; Samuel had devoured the snacks Heather packed. Spotting a Starbucks, his eyes lit up at the glass display of sandwiches and pastries. He couldn’t choose, his small face glowing with indecision. I ordered a banana nut muffin and coffee for myself, a sandwich, muffin, and juice for him.
Then, the blow: my credit card was declined. I asked the barista to try again, certain it was a mistake. Declined again. I switched cards—declined. Tears burned my eyes as the truth hit me like a freight train: Mitchell had done this. A third card failed, and I broke, tears streaming as I stood humiliated before the young barista. Through my sobs, I explained to her, a stranger, that my husband had filed for divorce the day before, that we were fleeing to family, and that he’d canceled my cards without warning. “Please, cancel the order,” I choked out, unable to meet her eyes. “I have no money.”
Her voice cut through my despair: “What do you want? It’s on me.” I wept harder at her kindness, begging, “Nothing for me, just something for my son, please.” She ignored my plea, slipping a small coffee into my hands alongside Samuel’s meal. I asked for a hug, and she came around the counter, wrapping me in a warmth that held me together when I was falling apart. “Everything will be okay,” she said with a smile so genuine it seared into my memory. I’ll never forget that Starbucks barista at Atlanta airport, a beacon of compassion in my darkest hour.
Our journey continued with a layover in St. Louis before landing in New York. Flight attendants, sensing our fragility, ensured Samuel and I sat together, a kind gentleman swapping seats without hesitation. Samuel, unprompted, made the sign of the cross as the plane took off, and I praised his quiet strength. We laughed through silly throat noises to ease the pressure in our ears, our smiles a fleeting shield against the pain.
Charlene welcomed us into her in-law suite, and that night, as Samuel slept peacefully, I watched him with a heart swollen with love and weighed by uncertainty. How would we rebuild? What future awaited us?
Morning brought joy—Samuel woke to his cousins’ hugs and laughter, a balm for our wounds. The kids filled the day with play: bikes, scooters, and an oversized Styrofoam plane that soared onto the roof, sparking giggles that echoed through the yard. Church services anchored us, and Easter Sunday’s waterfront brunch was a bittersweet reprieve. Photos captured our smiles, masking the ache in my soul. Samuel’s blue basket overflowed with egg hunt treasures—candy, toys, and a tooth fairy visit for another lost tooth, complete with notes and quarters. No matter the chaos, I vowed to preserve his childhood, to give him the magic I’d known.
But then, the unexpected: “Grandpa!” the kids shouted from the kitchen. My heart sank. Facing my father felt impossible—his warnings about Mitchell had been right, and the shame of my failure burned. My sister urged me forward, knowing I couldn’t hide forever. When I saw Dad, his “Oh, Jocelyn” and fierce embrace shattered my defenses. I sobbed like a child, apologizing endlessly. He never said, “I told you so.” Instead, he held me tighter, whispering, “You were too good for him. This isn’t your fault. He’ll regret it.” His love was a lifeline, unwavering and fierce.
Dad revealed Mitchell had called him at 8 a.m., coldly announcing our divorce to my 82-year-old father. Panicked, Dad had driven to the airport and flown to us, driven by a father’s profound love. I’ll never forget his sacrifice.
Those nine days in New York were a tapestry of healing—charades, drawing contests, tie-dye t-shirts, water balloon fights, zoo trips, trampoline bounces, and jacuzzi nights. Yet, as I lay awake beside Samuel, my mind churned. Why had Mitchell done this? I scoured old emails, finding one from September 5, 2013, that he’d read but never answered. Another, from April 15, 2013, documented his cruel words and their impact on Samuel, who’d whispered, “I wish I had a better dad.” The signs were there, subtle but real. An email from April 17, 2013, demanded I repay him for taxes—a cold shift that marked the beginning of his withdrawal. How had I let him erode my worth for so long?
Fr. James visited for an Easter blessing, and my sister arranged for me to speak with him privately. His words cut deep: “Mitchell’s not with God.” I’d always known it, but hearing it from a priest stung. Later, Samuel, ever curious, spoke with Fr. James and told him that he feels “mad and sad,” he admitted, then asked, “How do I stop my dad from drinking?” My heart broke. Fr. James gently explained it was Mitchell’s choice, urging Samuel to pray for him. My brave boy held up icons, determined to “fix” his dad.